Oct 082017
 

I have a few go to phrases, “I suck at handjobs,” is one of those. It’s something that I don’t have a lot of practice in because that go-to statement is normally enough to get my off the hook and moving onto things that I do better. The reality is just that it’s a nonpreferred activity in a bag full of fun sexiness, and something that felt awkward to me.

The nitty gritty of that statement is that I feel handjobs are an area of weakness for me and rather than encourage practice and learning about it, I avoid it like the plague. There will be no blemish on my skill level. Nope.

That doesn’t mean that my hand doesn’t wrap around a cock, or that my palm or fingers don’t appreciate sliding up and down to feel how thick and hard he is, the pulse that I can create, the veins that create a contrast to the smoothness. Oh no, I appreciate all of that. My hands will still most likely touch and feel, but they won’t ever promise a motion that promises fulfillment. My hands will work in tandem with my mouth, most often, if fulfillment to him and hands are involved in any way. That’s part of my own fetish anyhow, having him in my mouth, perhaps that’s why: my greedy mouth does not like to step aside for just hands.

I love when a partner shows me how they like to grip themselves, stroke themselves, the pace that gets them off. Besides being visually stunning and a turn on, I do learn from that – just don’t feel confident in that I could duplicate that sensation due to my lack of experience. I will mimic it, but more as a tease and less of an act in itself, stopping rather quickly so I can get to something I feel more confident in. Every man is so vastly different, from my experience, in how they want a handjob that it’s a bit daunting.

There have been some exceptions, I am sure, far far into my past where a man came unexpectedly, but I can’t place one situation. With my ex-husband, I would peg him and stroke him with a hand at the same time, but he took control of the handjob the first time so our go-to was I would encourage him to stroke himself while I fucked him. For us, if he wanted me to give him a handjob until orgasm, I would’ve tried, but he let me off the hook every time – besides our fascination was always deep throating or sex to fulfillment.

With Mr. Texas, he finally vocalized and showed me what he liked, but it is not something that I feel I could duplicate – rather I learned where he likes to be touched best and to what extent – knowledge I use frequently. The few times I have tried to give him a handjob, he has let me know he’d rather do other things – somewhat discouraging me when I feel bold enough to try. Which normally I wouldn’t care about – again, a bag full of fun things to do anyhow, but I would like to try to give him fulfillment in this way, as oftentimes he will just finger me to orgasm without his own pleasure pursuit so I would like to reciprocate… but he doesn’t seem to want me to try? Or perhaps I suck at the act? Maybe his own kink is getting me off without any pleasure being returned? (It’s not our lack of communication that stops me from knowing my answer – it’s my own fear of the answer).

The Wanderer, well, now I have a success story for this post. He loves handjobs – something that filled me with dread, but he is an excellent teacher, and he walked through my first successfully tried handjob. He was able to verbalize exactly what he wanted and needed, and that was such a huge turn on in itself. It was beautiful to witness.

“My hand wrapped around his shaft and he directed to where exactly to hold on the length. Unsure, I squeezed a bit and he directed me to clench harder. Up and down, my fingers felt the muscles and veins and ridges, my palm felt how deliciously hard he was. His encouragement with the timber of his voice, the erotic words directing me, and I found myself growing wet, imagining what I felt in my hand sliding up and down inside my cunt.

As he hardened even more, his thigh muscles tightened and his hips thrusted a bit into my hand, and I felt powerful. I was creating these sensations that he was enjoying, producing pleasure that had nothing to do with me and every bit directed just for him. There is something selfless about a hand job: it allowed me to be more of an observer of his pleasure, gifted me an intimate view of how he reacts and what he liked, such an intimate glimpse.

I felt him pulse and throb against my fingers and palm, watched as his milky orgasm reached its climax and shot out of his cock, heard his groan of satisfaction. It was so hot” – Hot Wax and Hands

[jwplayer mediaid=”7535″]

Sep 072017
 

Squirting is a sexual hangup on mine; my very first hangup since becoming sexual active and it happened less than ten years ago. It also occurred with my ex-husband. The first time he made me squirt, he lifted his hand and smelled it. It wasn’t a sexy smelling he was doing, he was checking to see if I peed myself. Since I had never done this before to my awareness*, the sensation certainly felt like I  had. When I saw his hand lift to his nose, it was a horror-movie-moment of slow-motion what-is he-going-to-find? I immediately excused myself and went into the bathroom and cried, mortified and embarrassed. The sexy moment between us had come to a screeching halt and I wished I could have just vanished. The talk afterwards didn’t go well, then, either (once he finally coaxed me out of the bathroom). While we communicated openly and honestly, we just fumbled and stuck our foot in our mouth.

I hated squirting.

Because of that first experience and the fact that he could make me squirt with such ridiculous ease, we compromised that he never sniffed and eventually we settled to only in the shower.

When I squirt, I will cover an entire wrist and leave a pool of my desire dripping onto the sheets or an arm; there has to be enough pressure applied with a vibe or fingers – which curl just the right way inside of me (so far fingering and a vibrator are the only ways that have made me squirt). I dislike the mess outside of a shower, to be honest. Sheet and mattress pad have to be washed, odds are I’ll have to shower – something I don’t feel the urge to do outside most sexual acts but squirting covers so much of my lower half I may as well at least rinse off.

Once, I was able to do this myself with a vibrator.  Feeling the urge to masturbate, I grabbed my vibrator, and without any warm up, forced it through my dry entrance, slowly eased it in, pulled out and smeared my juices inside around my lips. Then I thrusted my vibrating toy in and out, hard, rough, frenzied. I heard my orgasm, the wetness slapping against the vibrator; felt the tension then liquid hitting my hand, little splatterings that surprised me. In that moment I was proud I had accomplished such a feat.

Once, Mr. Texas ordered me to make myself squirt – something my ex-husband accomplished over a video chat once, ordering:

“Harder,” he would urge, “really fuck yourself,” and, “you can go deeper… you won’t be allowed to cum unless you really give it your best effort,” finally followed by the order, “cum”…The sound traveled across miles, from one receiver to another, and hit my body like thunder. I squirted, my fingers and wrist coated from the force, the bottom of my lingerie and the bed catching the drops of the tensioned storm because he knew how to make me do it-even to myself. – My Punishment

I tried for Mr. Texas, but I immediately felt like crying over such an order – I really don’t know how to do it, nor do I even want to (hence why my ex made me- it was a punishment). Truly, what is most frustrating at times is when a partner reads about experiences I’ve had and believes that the dynamics, actions, experiences can happen again. Squirting is elusive now, something that I do not mind in the slightest.

Nowadays, Mr. Texas has gotten me close, and perhaps even achieved this, though I do have a defense mechanism that is instinctively for whatever reason: I hit. I’m sure I did this with my ex-husband but he never paid any heed if I hit him; Mr. Texas stopped immediately, concerned. We’ve talked about why I do this, and so most of the time he still proceeds or even pins down my arm (surprisingly I only instinctively hit with my right, never my left), but squirting orgasms have to be forced from me, and with my own resistance towards them it becomes even more challenging to create this orgasm.

Thankfully, I have so many more less frustrating orgasms, easier to obtain, in such a variety of ways; I’m not sure why squirting orgasms are even desired by a partner. I don’t hate squirting anymore but I can’t claim to like it either.

*I can recall drenching a bed from just fingering and multiple orgasms before my ex-husband, but due to the nature of the multiple orgasms didn’t have the time or the brain power to reflect upon the oddities of the orgasms. I believe that this was my first experience with squirting, about a year prior to meeting my ex-husband.

May 312017
 

I used to joke that my husband sucked in bed once. He did, but he could laugh good-naturedly about it because he was asleep when he sucked. How that man was fully asleep, and yet could carry on a conversation, be hard, let me ride him, and even cum inside of me fully asleep – I’ll never know. The military may train these men to sleep under strange circumstances, as I also don’t understand how he sleeps through mortars or standing up.

And now he has sucked a second time (almost a third, as the night before that wasn’t that great, though it wasn’t terrible). The last time I had sex with him (why does our last times have to suck in some way?), the sex wasn’t good. That night he didn’t want to have sex with me at all – even though I hadn’t seen him in weeks and we just had two nights (and not even days) together, but in the morning hours after his alarm went off he was apparently in the mood for it.  I didn’t even orgasm – and that’s saying something for me. He was fully awake but I received no foreplay before he was pulling me on top of him. I rode him until he found his orgasm in the early morning hours before he climaxed and then began to get ready to go for the day.

Perhaps he was still asleep? No, he was fully awake, he even admitted as much later, and he approached me for sex, not me pushing my body down on his lazy form that I was unaware was sleeping.

Perhaps it was good bye sex? No, good bye sex is meaningful in many ways. It has the passionate ending that is fizzling out but contained for one last burst of brightness. It has longing and love and tenderness behind every moment, and an intense unspoken message in every action. It is a parting gift, a last hurrah. There was no message in his action, no passion in his movement.

Perhaps it was one stand sex? No, even one night stands are more impressive. They explore an unknown body, or a body that they haven’t seen in awhile. People show off a skill normally in a one night, like a one trick pony putting on a display. They seem unsure because it is just for one night. He seemed sure of the steps, of the dance, of the show; uncaring of the tricks that he knows will bring me delight.

I didn’t say anything as he left.

Perhaps it was good bye sex that I was feeling? And I was tired of the words – besides which, he had uttered them far too often and only once to my face – and that was more of a repeat of the words he stated as I drove across country towards him.

Perhaps it was one night stand sex? That was how I felt, as if this person underneath me was just using my body for one time and uncaring of putting on a show; though I was: I was grinding down and tightening in ways that I know bring him pleasure, bring most men to pleasure, putting on my one trick in a way that tires me beyond one show. I didn’t know this person that my thighs straddled, he was an emotionless stranger to me that time and distance and anger and hurt and other relationships created.

…Later that day, when he called me when I driving the distance home, he said that he didn’t feel a connection to me the whole weekend. I could tell and let him know that.

I could also tell where the conversation was leading, as I had heard this enough from him. We didn’t place blame or point fingers, there was no “you do this” but only “I feel this” of a healthy communication expressing of feelings. He didn’t want to do this anymore: he wanted his family to take care of him, he was afraid of change, he was unsure of ever trusting our relationship again.

And to be honest: I was ready to let go. I didn’t want to do this again. I didn’t want to change who I was, what I wrote about, have someone jealousy paranoid, be in a relationship where there was no trust: me not trusting him to stay with me despite time and commitment, him not trusting me in a monogamous setting where I am not even talking to people in a sexual manner. I didn’t want to sacrifice anything further for him – I had already sacrificed so much. And I didn’t want him to sacrifice anything for me when he told me over and over again that he didn’t want to, and I didn’t want the resentment if he did.

Apr 122017
 

“Play hard to get, remain silent, scared, and dramatically emotional,” Joy repeated to herself, closing the big red book of Fairy Tales upon her perch of the toadstool. She nodded to herself for extra measure, felt the breeze stir the fringes of her tutu skirt, rubbed her toes together for comfort, and laid the book beside her. She arched into the sunlight, welcomed the warming rays upon her bare arms and face, and closed her eyes, trying to remember the rest of what she’d learned about non humans trying to get humans to love them.

She’d like Beast’s methods best, but he was a male. She looked down at her breasts and giggled, nope…she just didn’t possess enough fur to carry it off and take the woman like he did. Besides, she had her sights set on a man. Of course, maybe men liked that sort, but her extensive research did not indicate that. She had read what men really liked.

He was long, but then again they all looked a bit long when one was tiny. He had the most beautiful garden, and seemed kind. She loved how what he was focused on reflected so beautifully on the lenses of his glasses. She hoped to be reflected there one day, with his luscious lips smiling at her in love.

She stood up, squared her shoulders, stretched her wings and let those embrace the breeze and sun before flitted to the nearby ground. She squinted her eyes and held her breath after casting, realized that wasn’t the most flattering, and forced herself to relax as all the fairies seemed to. Eloquence, grace, she repeated. A few seconds went by: a deep breath and her eyes opened to the grass so far below her she could barely distinguish the toadstool. She worried for the briefest of moments if she made herself too long, but worrying just wasn’t in her nature, so she shrugged and off she headed towards the man’s yard.

Not that Joy headed far, she simply stepped a few times, in awe of heavy she seemed against the earth, her feet slightly sinking in damp dirt, and reached for over the short gate to his gorgeous garden. A quick twist of the lock, a slight push of the creaky contraption, and she entered the path, immediately being surrounded by the lovely fragrance of roses and flowers. This was by far her favorite season, made her think of sex amid all the perfumed sweetness.

This year she was going to attempt a different type of sex, her family always did mention just how her curiosity got the better of her. It was such fun discovering new things. As she walked past the blooms, before she was already visible in the garden, she could already envision once he saw her he would stand up and gaze at her beauty. She would pretend to just notice him and turn back towards the bushes and climbing vines as if to seek shelter, but he would take her hand and guide into the sunshine in the center of his yard. She would smile coyly, a move she had been practicing, and would shyly kneel before him.

Men, she read, loved blow jobs, a sex called oral, and so he would be surprised when she kneeled in front of him but wouldn’t stop her. She would reach for his pants and pull out his penis. According to her reasearch, this was where individual preference mattered, so she would purse her lips and start blowing softly before she increased the intensity to hard blowing. She liked the breeze upon her wings, so she supposed a human male’s penis might appreciate the air she created across. Sucking she couldn’t imagine would create the same air stream, but supposedly that was important too, so she would suck in great lungful of air and would look up with him with eyes that looked like puppies and he would smile his appreciation at her gift, falling in love with her.

The tricky part was, according to the fairy tales, they would be married immediately but she didn’t want that part, only the falling in love and sex part; so she would have to run away once he proposed. But she would blow him a kiss behind her shoulder and wink to let him know there were no hard feelings, and try not to giggle (as was her nature) until she was once again in her natural form. (The tales also shared she would die a painful death if she didn’t succeed, but of course she would, she always did.)

Joy couldn’t wait to see the look on his face as she gave him what all men wanted so much they fell in love. She quickened her steps.
Wicked Wednesday

*Wicked Wednesday is on nature this week. Click to see what inspires others.

Feb 162017
 

An unrelated picture that continues the hotness that is David

Febraury Photofest

 

 

 

 

I swear there is something wrong with a lover of mine. Either that or I’m losing my touch at training.

Maybe a bit of both.

I am incredibly verbal while having sex. When something feels good, I tend to verbalize it, either with words (a more conscious things) or just the sounds that slip unbidden from my mouth. I sigh, I moan, I groan, I state “yes” or “that feels good” or “don’t stop”. I arch into the touch, I hold it tighter, I grind down onto it.

It’s only when I get overwhelmed that I get confusing with directions, when I start to unconsciously say: “no yes” or “stop” (but don’t mean it). It’s when I grip tighter but then push away, squirm a bit from the sensation but say yes. But this is after an orgasm or two, so if a lover gets confused and stops, I’m okay…

I’ve had mine.

But I have a lover who stops when I tell him not to, slows down when I physically am at my most welcoming. He is constantly ruining my orgasms with the premature ending of what feels good. I am not being confusing in what I want to occur because I haven’t even managed to have one orgasm yet. Maybe he thinks even the slightest noise means that I’ve already achieved an orgasm, instead of I’m just beginning to feel the build up of pleasure.

But honestly, regardless of how confused I get when I have an orgasm, when I say “don’t stop,” it doesn’t mean to stop. Honest.

Jan 262017
 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/martekristineo/5502801613

I agree with those that feel that a safe word is not needed, that no and stop should be exactly that.

I also agree with those that feel that a safe word is needed, that they don’t want their no and stop to always mean that.

I also realized that I need to be clear where I stand. I used to be the second option – I wanted the struggle, my instinct when something hurts is to say no and stop, but I can continue and I want my partner to push me.

I learned a very hard lesson in the complications of this negotiated use of safe words when I felt like I was forced anally, but he expected me to use my safe word.

“First and foremost, while my safeword did not occur to me, I did have one. My ex truly expected me to use it… I believe that he expected me to safeword if I felt that strongly about “no” after talking to him months later. And I truly did not even think about using a safeword, felt like my “no” and “stop” were enough; after all – just the day prior we discussed needing the safeword before a scene. I didn’t use a safeword with him just having sex with him – never felt that was needed.

Perhaps this is a horrible complication with using safewords, when stop and no don’t always mean stop and no.” – Consent with Anal

My ex and I did discuss safe words before every scene that we felt it was needed – and only the scenes that included impact (or our one time doing consensual non consent). Even in rope I didn’t use a safe word but gave a time that I needed out (even if it was immediately). So I understand why I did not think to safe word, we were just having sex, after all. I also understand why he felt that I would safe word – I do have and use my safe word and he trusted me in that.

So now I’m on the fence with safe words. I still use them, and I’ve been trying to get Mr. Texas to use them. I really like the “yellow” for change up or no further, and the “red” for can’t take anymore. I also, especially when I top him, realize that I am dealing with a man not used to coloring at all, so I listen to his body language,  his words, his noises, and his actions and proceed cautiously, stopping far before he colors. If I force him to color, I warn him ahead of time that is my intent and do only one action (like bite down) until he remembers to use it.

Again, though, I don’t believe that I should only stop when he uses his safe word. If I am playing to the edge it is with someone I trust and who trusts me, someone that I have played with many times before, someone that will know my tells and listen to my body language the same way that I do theirs.

My ex husband should have known mine, should have listened. But we are equally to blame for that scenario.

I still want my no and stop to not mean no and stop when I feel like struggling or fighting back, it is so hot to me that I will be held down or my cries will be ignored. It is also reassuring to me that my safe word will be respected, that I have a safe word.

But I need to start being more consistent with using my safe word, even if I am just having sex, because just having sex is very easily turned into something else once we’re naked and having fun. I need to not view sex as an activity isolated from BDSM, because it is not, and it rarely ever is just sex with me.

I can easily view how I am inconsistent: The Wanderer would never have to worry about me not coloring and using my safe word – we have a clear boundary of no intercourse and a partnership that’s foundation is BDSM. Neither would anyone that I played with in a dungeon or other kink event. Mr. Texas, however, may have to worry if he pushed for something I didn’t want to do – and that’s incredibly unfair to him; but I view us as having a sexual relationship first, exploring each other in BDSM second – and BDSM being new to him especially he needs to read other cues and listen to words (to an extent – he already has figured out my no rarely means no but I like the protest).

I am confusing as hell about using my own safe word and that isn’t fair to my sexual partner. I have learned that I cannot rely, either, on my partner and I consistently using a safe word only in certain scenes (like impact or consensual non consent).

It is up to me to clearly define and use my safe word to my partners, and to be consistent.

Jan 192017
 

Height differences sometime suck. Why do any of the women in our family venture forth with tall men is beyond me.

For example, I have to ask my lover’s permission to kiss him. He’s too tall for me to reach and kiss on my own accord. He has to lean down for me to kiss.

But then again, on his knees he’s the perfect height to kiss.

I am on the short side. If the women in our family make it over five foot, they are considered tall, and lucky. So sex is a challenge in certain ways…

For one, having both my partner and I standing up is near impossible. He would have to bend his knees too much, which leads to fatigue and awkwardness.

Additionally, the most comfortable position I do on top is when I am posed over them, in a squat position, rather than on my knees, due to my little legs. (Wrapping my legs fully around someone isn’t likely either, especially a wider or taller man.)

It does have advantages too, like having sex in a car, in a bathtub, or any place that is a confined space. My lover appreciates the short size for easy pick up, adjustments, or control.

Nov 182016
 

I received a text last night from a friend and former lover. It wasn’t positive.

Taking a step back: he had texted me last week about finding a new sexual partner during his vacation, and they had had the STIs discussion. He thought I would have been proud of him, as that is a talk that I stress in my own life. I was proud of him for talking, but apparently the talk was brief (and worthless in my opinion).

A week later she had texted him asking if he had come inside of her, to which he replied he did, and on several occasions. I’m unclear why days later this would concern her. But she responded negatively towards this admittance.

He texted that he was nervous, that he felt that during the STI talk that he was thorough enough to dispel any concerns.

Maybe for STIs, from  him. But how does he know that she is clear of any? I require my partners to be tested, to show me that test. I want to go into an intimate situation clearly informed. Him telling her that he is clear, that he’s been tested, doesn’t protect him.

And the idiot (don’t worry, I still love the idiot) didn’t even consider pregnancy it seems. STI talks are not pregnancy talks, though they can easily segment into them (which apparently they didn’t). He didn’t even think to ask about birth control. She didn’t even think to ask for him to wear a condom.

I think condoms are a must to such an extent that it has to be negotiated out of the equation, not into it.

He’s beating himself up over this, and I think he should, because I’m mean like that. Hopefully he’ll learn from the experience, and hopefully without long term consequences. But I don’t think he’s entirely to blame.

Women cannot be so passive as to place all the blame solely on their partner. They are just as responsible for their sexual well-being. I told him that “she can’t shift all the blame to him, unless she told him to pull out. She allowed sex without a condom as much as he did. She’s as much to blame as he is, and if she’s not adult enough to own up to it, then he shouldn’t be doing adult activities with her anyhow.”

I had a few follow up questions like: “is she on birth control?” and “how did you guys negotiate the no condoms?”. This really should have been a part of their talk beforehand, but maybe he’ll remember them for next time.

Women aren’t the only ones, however. I cannot begin to count how many men have told me, when a partner gets pregnant, “but she said that she was on birth control,” or “but she said she couldn’t get pregnant,”. While men have far less options to avoid pregnancy than women, they can always put a condom on. No matter how much they trust their partner, if they don’t want to have a child, they can take precautions to avoid it.

I am aware that my own viewpoint of sex and sex talks will be different than other people’s. That having these talks aren’t going to cover everything, like non-monogamy, condoms breaking, cheating, and other scenarios (though, seriously, I discuss issues like that as well). I may be a bit fanatical in my discussions and suck all the romance out of it.

But I am in charge of my sexuality, of my body. I am. No one else.

And it pisses me off when I see people of any gender pointing the finger at someone else if they consented to the activities. They need to own up to what they allowed, what they liked, what they consented to, what happened. It’s not a blame game.

 Posted by at 7:59 am
Oct 302016
 

So, this week has been very anal intensive with my writings. The reason is because last week I went over to Mr. Texas’ house (yes, we’re back together) and we had drinks and hot tub time. We had already discussed no sex, because I tore from the prior weekend’s sexfest and needed to heal up for a few days.

“No penetration,” he said, shaking my hand but negotiating for making out.

I didn’t want to make out. Our making out always ended in sex. But I shook hands on our tentative deal. And we made out in amidst the chilly fall air and heat of the water. His finger went to roam around my anus, and when he attempted to insert a bit, I commented that we needed lube.

“So let’s get lube then,” he stated, holding out a hand to help me out of the hot tub.

I should’ve known the bed is not a good place to go when avoiding sex.

In bed, he used a generous amount of lube and fingered me to an anal orgasm – a rarity and one that I was shocked that I experienced. As he nibbled on my neck, he whispered that it was too bad that we decided we didn’t want to try anal sex, because it was the perfect opportunity to try it.

He had a point; I had just orgasmed anally from fingering, I wondered if I could from sex. I felt terrified, but tried to sort out the emotion and felt that maybe it was because the one and only time before that was so horrible.

Shouldn’t I get over that experience?

“Yes, we should, but it requires a lot of lube.”

“We should what?”

“Try it.”

“What is it?” The clarification of consent was crucial to him, it seemed, after my sharing of the last experience.

“Anal sex.”

The problem with a man who just began inserting a finger, and wasn’t educated on it, was he immediately pushed himself in after applying a lot of lube (or at least it felt that way).

I jumped up and away from him, complaining of how badly it hurt.

He apologized profusely, felt terrible about hurting me. He said he was barely in, and I needed to relax.

I laid back down on my stomach and was willing to give it another try.

…And he moved slowly the second go round, telling me to breathe and relax.

…And it hurt, but it may have been from the first attempt.

…And I should have worked up to sex, instead of barely getting any anal stimulation and going from a finger thinking I could do more.

…And I was getting over my anal issue, dammit, so I breathed and willed myself to relax and he stroked in and out until it was just a dull uncomfortable.*

He slid out too far by mistake, and in looking down, saw a mess, so we stopped there.

Not the most successful, but for me, it was an uphill mental battle far more than anything physical.

I don’t know if I’ll try anal sex again, but I’m hoping to no longer feel sick to my stomach terrified of it.

And I cried, goodness how I cried after we were done.

…I didn’t want him to view me as disgusting (he had stated when we first started dating that he viewed anal sex as disgusting) and I was messy. Would he leave me (and was that a remnant feeling that my ex left me with)? What if he didn’t like the experience and I forever hurt his chances of liking it because I was a wimp with how badly it hurt?

…And I cried because I was overcoming the last time; the memory flooded back in great waves and threatened to drown me in the panic.

Mr. Texas pulled me into a shower where he held me for a long time before washing us up, before holding me again, before pulling us out and drying us off. He pulled me into bed and held me until I was strong enough to hold my composure.

He thanked me for allowing us both to experience anal sex for the first time together.

And I was grateful he put that spin on it (even knowing the experience I was overcoming), because he was right, it was the first time.

Because I felt like I wanted to experience anal sex, and that made all the difference.

 

*It may have felt good had not the first slide-in hurt so badly; a fact that I am pondering a lot.

Oct 272016
 

I wrote a post back in February on trying anal sex for the first time with my husband – who had just left me weeks prior. I stated I felt that it needed a trigger warning, but I wasn’t sure why.

And then I sat on the post for four months because he didn’t want me to post it, was outright upset with it, and I thought (and still think) it’s because it showed he cheated on his monogamous girlfriend with his wife.

I posted it when he did some asshole things to me and why should I care and protect him? Also, because the bad decisions of that weekend still nagged at me, and I felt that I didn’t read enough real stories of desperate people trying to hold onto a relationship with terrible decisions (like how I was the other woman and trying all sorts of new things with my ex).

It shocked me to see the consent issue come up, because I hadn’t thought of it, but once I read the comment, that was exactly why I felt like it needed a trigger warning. (It’s hard to believe I didn’t think of it, now, when my writing definitely looks like non consent.)

And then his girlfriend felt the urge to defend him and question me in the commentary, and while she didn’t state it was her, I knew it was and confirmed it with him. (She interacted several times with me but I didn’t keep the entirety of the interactions because I feel it is inappropriate that she addressed me at all – I never once addressed her on anything.)

“You made it seem like rape,” he declared, upset, defending her action.

“It felt like it was at the moment,” I shot back, and then realized…yes, it did.

It was not the consensual non consent scene, hell, it wasn’t even edge play by either of our standards. When he proposed anal sex before he came that weekend, I told him probably not, but that I would think on it. That morning I told him I wasn’t interested in it. And then he pushed for it during a head space a bit foggy with orgasms. And while I said maybe, I did not say yes. And when he pushed for it, I told him no. And when I asked him to stop, he blood-chocked me unconscious.

The fallout led me to crying hysterically for hours and finally crying myself to sleep. It led to him yelling at me to get a grip on myself and my emotions. It led to me not being to articulate what bothered me so badly about the experience. It left me seriously depressed (or maybe that was being divorced, ditched, all the way across the country from my support system?).

And it wasn’t until the comment that consent wasn’t given that I realized why this moment devastated me so fully.

But let me perfectly clear – I am not calling this rape.

Maybe this is where the shades of gray and debate can come out.

I am only saying that it felt like rape; and this is the first and only time I have felt like that.

First and foremost, while my safeword did not occur to me, I did have one. My ex truly expected me to use it.

We have talked about this sensitive topic since then; I truly do not believe that he meant for the experience to feel the way that it did. I believe that he expected me to safeword if I felt that strongly about “no” after talking to him months later. And I truly did not even think about using a safeword, felt like my “no” and “stop” were enough; after all – just the day prior we discussed needing the safeword before a scene. I didn’t use a safeword with him just having sex with him – never felt that was needed.

Perhaps this is a horrible complication with using safewords, when stop and no don’t always mean stop and no.

I still take responsibility.

I am still his friend, and still hope to be so. I hope he doesn’t take offense, as I mean none, in reflecting on anal this week.

And I still feel that the scene needs a trigger warning – if nothing else for me – I can’t even reread it and haven’t since I wrote it (other than the third italic sentence I added in the beginning to clarify a comment). Hell, even reflecting on it, I feel sick.